


verbatim

by grandson



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Immortality, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bullying, Edo Period, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Historical Inaccuracy, Immortal Kageyama Tobio, Immortal Oikawa Tooru, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-War, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23896129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandson/pseuds/grandson
Summary: and oh, there it was — that phantom of an ache that resided in his chest, a century-old disease that throbbed every fortnight, and never failed to resurface old, bitter memories, twinged with sweetness. those memories came in the form of a pale-skinned boy, with warm brown hair and a cocksure laugh — labeled with the nameoikawa tooru.or rather, kageyama tobio, oikawa tooru, and something about immortality, types of milk, and finding each other again. (rewritten).
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio & Oikawa Tooru, Kageyama Tobio/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 55
Kudos: 259





	verbatim

**Author's Note:**

> hi ! please heed the tags for anything that make be triggering, i hope you enjoy this !

**i.**

There was a century-old in his chest that he yearned to heal from— that he longed to embalm. It was a gaping, hollowed wound he was desperate to close, a pain that he itched to forget. It came in the form of a pale-skinned man, with warm, pecan hair and chestnut-colored eyes— firm muscles, a grin full of teeth, and a cocksure laugh— the name Oikawa Tooru.

**ii.**

And, they were born in a small, tightly-knit village, beneath the rule of the Tokugawa Shogunate— sometime the early 1800s, perhaps during the Kansei Era, or the Kyōwa Era (he doubts he’ll ever truly remember). They grew up together, however, _’childhood friends,’_ was hardly the term for them. 

Oikawa Tooru was— popular, as he was patronizing, eloquently-spoken as he was loud-mouthed— flamboyant, charming— and someone who antagonized Kageyama Tobio with every opportunity. Who, in turn, was quite the contrast— quiet, slightly tempered— who befriended the local corvids and felines, giving them his scraps (who never spoke back to him).

And the former had a bit of a— sadistic streak, a cruel side to him. A side to him he showed _exclusively_ to the latter. 

At first, he was five years-old, when he was pushed into the freezing river that ran through their village by a pair of hands that no one could name— and when he was seven years-old, he was shoved down the _steep_ hillside, a bucket of water in his hands. A day of before his eighth birthday, it had just been an _accident_ that Oikawa had tripped onto him, hands full with a kettle of hot water. 

And, when he was barely ten years-old, the back of his calves were struck with the base of a cane, hard enough to leave him shaking, his skin red— and for what reason, he still couldn’t tell (he had tried to ignore Oikawa’s smug grin, arms full of stolen sweets). 

When he was twelve years-old, all of his friends turned away from him— eyes shining with disgust, lips twisted into frowns— stepping towards the older boy, instead— who just looked at him, eyes twinkling with glee, a smile on his face. 

He was hardly fourteen years-old when an older man approached by the flowerbeds in the backyard of his house, who was three-times his size with a long, scraggly beard and a thin stack of money in hand— who tells him that he was told that there were _services_ to be offered here. And he, in turn, explains with narrowed eyes and a scowl so deep it hurts, that _no,_ there was nothing to be offered here, except the twigs the local corvids would gift him. 

And Kageyama Tobio is fourteen-years old when Oikawa Tooru shows him kindness for the very first time.

The older boy had strolled around the curve of his house, tossing an apple up and down from his hand— head tilted back with a smile and a laugh— calling out to the younger boy— _”Well, did anyone come by, Tobio-chan? Or, were they put off by your ugly face and ugly crows.”_ He had asked loudly, turning the corner, about to take a bite from his apple.

But it dimmed for a moment, and then slipped off his face once he saw the condition of the other boy— hovering over the man, who was face-first in the dirt. He had his yukata pulled open, slightly— with scrapes on his shins, and his knuckles skinned open, blood trailing down the corner of his face— shaking, with fear, fury? And for once, there were tears welled up in his eyes that refused to fall.

He had rushed over— of course he did, hovering over the younger boy, hands outstretched with hesitance, unsure, for once in his life.

And, Kageyama looked as if though he wanted to recoil, shrink away— but instead, he balled his fingers into a fist and _punched_ him so hard, he nearly toppled over. He was heaving— and in-between struggling breaths, he choked out: _”What did I do to you?”_ he asked, wheezed, more like, _”Tell me, tell me what I did to deserve this!”_ he yelled— almost screamed, grabbing him by the collar, forcing him to look him in the eye. He was crying, now, tears against his cheek. It unsettled him. (He never cried).

He went quiet. (He was never quiet). It was in his chest— the guilt, making him choke on his words. His mind was blank— completely, completely blank. He pulls away from the grip on his yukata, settling down onto his knees, and pressing his forehead against the door, fists shaking from where they were, placed next to his head. He apologized, over and over again, until his voice went hoarse— begged him, practically.

A lot can happen in a single year, and he is fifteen-years old when he considers the fact that he may like— (love, his mind supplies)— Oikawa Tooru, and perhaps said-boy felt something for him, too. It was a feverish feeling in the center of his chest, it spread out to his fingers and down to his toes. They were friends, by then. It was a little difficult to adjust to, but, he finally got to see the Oikawa Tooru everyone else adored— the sweet one, the one who fed the local strays when Kageyama couldn’t.

A year or two passes, he isn’t sure— but he’s seventeen-years old, and completely, undeniably in _love._ He kisses someone— _Tooru,_ for the very first time and it is— sweet. It was in the springtime, and the flowers were in bloom and the trees seemed so much more _alive._ They were tucked away in their own, little corner of the world, hidden behind the trees, out in the meadows. It was chaste, a saccharine thing and it was— _perfect._

And, Kageyama is eighteen years-old, and he has nothing— his sister has been married off, his grandfather has passed, his parents are cold— so, he decides to leave. He leaves— in the middle-of-the-night, with the crickets chirping, a satchel strapped to his back, riding the back of a stolen horse. There are a pair of arms wrapped around his middle, and a face tucked into his shoulder with a barely-there smile.

They traveled— admiring the new landscapes, the smell of the flowers, the feeling of the grass, breathing in the harsh air of the mountainside. And, they spent their days inside of taverns and inns, working odd-jobs as farmers, stable-boys and keepers, moving, struggling, adapting— _living._

They worked, and they moved— until they found a little, nondescript village, a place where the word _home_ didn’t feel so wrong on their tongues— avoiding the grip of their government as they did.

And, Kageyama Tobio is almost twenty-nine, nearing thirty— working on a rice field, feet always wet, hands always sore— when he notices it. His friends— decade-old friends, have begun to age— smile lines, and wrinkles around their eyes, a grayed hair here and there— it’s not a lot, but it _bothers_ him, especially when he stares at his own reflection in the water.

He still looks like a _child._ He could _easily_ be mistaken for an eighteen year-old, twenty, at the oldest. It sticks with him. It makes him a think a bit too-hard. And, Tooru notices, of course he does— and he weasels it out of him, eventually.

And, he laughs it off— nearly spitting out his tea, waving his hand around. He tells him that— _”Eh, do you _want_ to look older, Tobio? You have the face of a toddler, I think you should be glad!”_ he exclaims, pointing a finger at him.

He blinks at him— and doesn’t mention that he is just the same— still bursting with energy, and eyes that look too-old, but still retain his childhood brightness, free of lines on his face and wrinkles around his eyes. He doesn’t mention it. (He knows that he knows).

**iii.**

In a way, the years go by quickly— but so, so slowly at the same time. They’re in their mid-thirties, by now— and that’s when they realized that maybe, _maybe_ something was wrong with them. There’s talk about them that lilts between logical, and not— a word or two about good genetics, and then there’s other talk— that they slaughtered someone to preserve their youth. They ate fatty fish, they had the elixir of life— it was becoming too-much.

Oikawa’s eyes are distracted— murky, as he sits at their table, with his elbows digging into the wood, and his lips pressed against the sides of his palms. He’s quiet— eerily quiet, even as Kageyama settles a tea-bowl in front of him, watching as the steam wafted up, clinging to his eyelashes. They’ve spent most of their lives together, and yet, that deep, distant look in his eyes never failed to put him on edge.

Quietly, he pulls a chair back, and sits himself down next to him— wanting to reach for his hand, but resigning to pick at his own nails.

“We need to leave,” Oikawa murmurs suddenly, voice hushed— distracted, but in a way, so loud in the small, quiet room. Outside, the crickets begin to chirp, and Kageyama halts, lifting his head with parted lips, disbelief pressed into the lines of his eyebrows.

“It’s too dangerous,” he says, more to himself, “we can’t stay here, not any longer.” He continued, still not looking at him, eyes in a place far-away. He stood up, suddenly, chair clattering behind him— before turning, out of the room, leaving behind the steaming tea.

And, through the ringing in his ears— he can faintly register the sound of a match being lit, and it’s only then does he blink, once, twice. He stands up from his chair, and walks briskly out of the room— eyebrows raised.

“What do you mean, _leave?”_ Kageyama asks, “We— we’ve spent _so long_ here, we cant just— leave!” He argues, following Oikawa around the room as he moved, quick, swift— moving around stacks of papers, wooden boxes, piles of documents, pulling them out and setting them aside, tongue poking out in concentration— ignoring him.

Still, he soldiered on: “Oi, Tooru— Tooru, _listen to me!_ We can’t just leave, what is wrong with you? Where is this even _coming from—!”_ and then he was cut off as he turned— he moved fast, frighteningly fast. He had his hands on Kageyama’s face— with an _agonizing_ grip, iron-lined palms squishing his cheeks together.

He was startled by the suddenness of it— with his own hands coming to grip at his arms, his wrists. And, the callouses rubbing against his face made him wince, as he leaned forward on his feet, the hold forcing him to look up. _You could punch him,_ a voice at the back of his mind supplied, but he couldn’t get himself to move.

“Tobio,” he started, and he felt something unpleasant brew at the pit of his stomach— he _hated_ this voice, this tone— “we’re leaving, okay? He asked, rhetoric— it was more of a warning, really— no space left for argument, not when he got like this.

“We are _leaving.”_ He said, “and we’re going somewhere far, far away— where no one is going to find us, and no one is going to know us,” he tilted his head, “do you wanna know _why_ we’re going to do that?” He asked, again— sickly-sweet, mocking him, like he was a child.

Again, he didn’t wait for a response.

“Because we’re going to be in big trouble if we stay here, you know that, don’t you? You’ve noticed it, the way everyone’s been looking at us, watching us. They’re gonna hurt us, Tobio-chan. They’re not our friends, anymore— they’re a bunch of old geezers who are going to die soon, and they’re gonna try to take us down with them.” He explained, voice drawling out, and his grip on Kageyama’s face tightening with each passing sentence. It hurt.

“And I’m not going to _let_ that happen, okay?” He asked, tilting his head, bringing his face in close. Kageyama offered no response.

“So do something for me, Tobio. Be _quiet_ for once, and let me handle this.” He hissed, stinging with an air of finality— letting go of his face, and then _shoving_ him onto the bed behind. He didn’t spare him another glance— walking out of the room with an armful of papers, snuffing out the lit-wick of the candle, and then sliding the door behind him a thud.

And then, he was left in the dark— with the fight still burning inside of him, but dimming down considerably. He held onto his fingers. A few tears welled up in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.

“Jerk,” he whispered. It was suffocating— the mixture of embarrassment, rage. He debated on whether or not he should give him a black-eye. But, he stayed still, sniffling. He crawled to the left side of their bed, and tucked his head underneath the thin covers— ignoring the smoky smell of burning paper, the thuds of things being moved around.

Hours later, Oikawa slides open the door to their bedroom— and he’s quiet, achingly gentle with his actions. It’s a silent apology, Kageyama thinks, to how his anger resonated through the house a few hours ago. He pulls back the sheets, and settles down next to him. Kageyama, still drowsy with sleep, feels a chaste kiss pressed to the top of his head, a soft-spoken apology in his ear. He feels a hand on his arm. (Kageyama kicked him).

A few days later, they leave. It’s the middle of the night, it’s cold and they’re on an old, brown horse with a satchels-worth of luggage. Kageyama has his cheek pressed to Oikawa’s back, arms around his middle. And distantly, he wonders if his sister is okay.

It takes them a few days— _painfully_ long days, but they manage, and soon, they make it. It’s a completely different region— the air tastes slightly different, and the grass feels coarse, and nobody knows who they are. They take on new names, new lives— they become Samurais, and barely escape with their lives with the coming of the Summer War.

**iv.**

Time passes— and they grow older, a bit wiser, outliving their friends, watching from the sidelines as their country nosedives into modernism— taking the Westerners ideals. To Kageyama, that time was a blur, at best — in that time, there was a constant, pleasant hum underneath his skin. 

The Meiji Era, and then the Taishō Era — there is political strain on their country, tension in buzzing underneath the ground, but they ignore it— or do their best to. 

Oikawa becomes a businessman, dealing in... _something_ Kageyama doesn’t bother to care about. It suits him— he’s bright, an intelligent men, charismatic and loud-mouthed, confident and sharp around the edges. It was easy for him, to adjust to the change — ever-so-constant. 

Kageyama becomes a store clerk — simple, unassuming. It doesn’t require much thinking. He meets people — so much younger then him, but aging around the ends — who look at him with easy, practiced smiles. (He’s envious — he’s lived a dozen different lives under a thousand different names, and still, can’t fake a smile to save his life). 

He becomes a store clerk, and they live in a big, Western-styled house. It was the closest thing to becoming home, at the time. It was fitted with dark, paneled windows and brown leather sofas, and— it was wonderful, but that time was a blur.

Together — they live in a big, Western-styled house. At the time, it was the closest thing to becoming a home to them. It had sleek, wooden floors— fitted with dark, paneled windows. In the mornings— they were surrounded by constant light, the sunshine warming them, welcoming them to the start of another day. 

(There was talk about them, why wouldn’t there be? A pair of young, handsome men — living side-by-side in a large house — hidden by trees, tucked away from sight. But it was easy — so _easy_ to not care, to draw the curtains to a close and settle in each other’s embrace. They were used to talk). 

But it was sweet — overly so. It was just the two of them, living in a constant state of warmth. (Sometimes, he wishes he could remember it better. He can only remember flashes of images, of feelings. It was like the calm before the storm).

Then... then there’s war. They’ve lived through this before— but, this time, they were thrust to the frontlines of the battlefield. And god, those years were the longest. He could hardly remember a thing— doesn’t _try_ to, really. 

And everything was like — background noise. 

Fuck, the sound of screams, the shouting— tearing his palms open, the weight of the weapons— the smell of death clogging his nose, his throat closing up— bones sticking out, gunfire that never ended, the stickiness of blood, terror in his chest, anger in his neck. He was constantly thirsty, but he was never hungry. (A man died in his arms, he was hardly twenty). 

It was horrible. (Horrible couldn’t begin to cover it).

He can remember a time in-between, a time where they together again— and it was achingly bittersweet. Oikawa cried into his chest, and Kageyama held him tightly. It was meant to be the beginning of their healing— but then, they were torn from each other once more, thrown back into war, and had to do it all over again.

He can remember a short, short time in-between— a time where they were together again— and it was bittersweet, if anything. Oikawa cried— he cried, and he cried, and he cried — into his chest, into his neck, in a constant state of tears. Kageyama was forced to familiarize himself with the taste of saltwater. It was supposed to be the beginning of their healing, a (another) new life. 

But then, they were torn apart once more, thrown back into war, and had to do it all over again. 

And then Oikawa’s ship hits a mine — it explodes, into tiny bits and pieces, splintering off into nothingness, nothing but a mess of metal in the sea. Everyone died, another soldier whispered to him. Kageyama is the one receive his death certificate, and he plants a dozen flowers at his grave. He doesn’t cry. 

Then, he’s thrust into a new life, still looking every bit like a teenager — going by a name he picked up from a nearby headstone — and does it all over again.

**v.**

He’s okay, he thinks. He’s doing okay. He’s a century and a handful of decades old, and he thinks he has some consistency in his life now, a rhythm— a routine, he likes it. It’s (painfully) repetitive, sure— but it soothes him. It makes him feel like, less of a freak, and more like a person— a tragically simple person.

The Tōhoku Region is familiar, Miyagi even more so, and Sendai City is somewhere he’s called home before. (It’s been so, so long since he could say the word _home_ without the word tasting like ash on his tongue).

He goes by Kageyama Tobio for the first time in years— and dyes his hair back to black from the previous shade of platinum blond it had been, takes off the glasses he never even needed in the first place. (It’s equal-parts comforting and haunting, to look into the mirror and be taken a hundred years into the past.)

And, he’s settled into a small, modest apartment. It’s bare, at best— with white walls, wooden floors, and all of his furniture secondhand. He lives with a stray cat he’s taken off the streets— a little thing he’s taken to calling Miruku-chan, who has a notch missing off of her ear.

He attends online classes— and works an unassuming part-time job as a library assistant. It’s mostly filled with university students. He doesn’t have to talk, much. Usually, he just sits at the counter, shelves back books— sometimes, he helps students find their study material. It depends on the day, really.

It’s late, not extremely so— it’s nearing eleven, and they’ve been open a little later than usual. He slumps down in his chair, and glances out the window.

It’s vast, and black— starless, but the moon is white, endlessly bright. It’s a grounding sight, and a soothing thought— to know that _some_ things will never change, that he’s been looking at this same moon for as long as he could remember. (It’s one of the only constants in his life, it knows all his secrets).

He wipes down the checkout counter— and pokes a thin straw through the opening of a milk-carton, sipping on it, waiting for the last handful of students to make their leave. He redoes his shoelaces, and tugs his pullover on, and balances himself on a stool as he tilts his head up to count the bumps on the ceiling.

_New milk tastes a little off,_ he thinks, wiping the underside of the counter, _it’s more tasteless, but it tastes better at the same time?_ He muses to himself. _Weird._ He thinks, tilting his head back.

 _But then again, it probably depends on the brand, too._ He thinks, tousling his bangs with his fingernails. _Does it depend on the cows, as well? Maybe._ He thinks, plucking the keys from the counter, fitting the ring through his fingers.

He distantly registering the sound of the door opening, the overhead bell jingling. He had time to burn, (so much time) and students had no time to lose, so he didn’t mind too much. Takeda-san had always instructed him to not stay too late, always fretting over Kageyama with wide, concerned eyes.

 _Those other types of milks are weird, chocolate soy milk is good, but the other ones seem weird. Is milk supposed to be made out of almonds?_ He wondered, turning in his chair, watching the yellowed lights flicker. He blinked his eyes to a close, slumping down, tilting his head back.

A figure stopped in front of the counter, and a shadow covered him. He bit back a sigh— cracking his eyes open, throwing the carton over his shoulder and swirling his chair back to face the counter, slightly.

He sighed, softly, “How can I help— uh,“ he tilted his head up, “what the fuck.”

Kageyama knew Oikawa. Kageyama Tobio _knew_ Oikawa Tooru in every way, there was no doubting that. He knew how he felt— how he looked like— in every single way there was to know.

But, in his mind— there was an image of him burned into his mind. It was from the last time they saw each other— in the midst of war, and he was pale— _so_ pale. He was bruised— all over, covered in deep purples, disgusting yellows. His head was shaved, he looked tired, _so_ tired. It was burned into his mind, he saw it every-time he closed his eyes.

And yet— in front of him, there was nothing of the sort. A man— tall, fair-skinned with the lightest of tans. A black shirt, blue jeans, and a red jacket. Unblemished— completely unblemished. He had— brown eyes, rimmed with long eyelashes and brown hair, that fell downwards in loose curls— who was looking at him and—

If it was anyone else— he’d do a double take, he’d hesitate— but he knew Oikawa— he knew _Tooru._ This was Tooru— this was _his_ Tooru.

“Oh,” he whispered— before blinking, rapidly— rubbing at his eyes. His mind was blank— completely, totally blank. He raised his head and— he was still there, Oikawa Tooru, right there, in the flesh. He felt like he was going to throw up. He felt like slamming his head against the counter.

A hand touched the back of his neck, and gently urged him to look up— shaking, the hand that touched him was cold and shaking and— _yeah,_ he thought, watching as tears welled up in those dark, brown eyes, _it’s Tooru._

And then he got _slapped._

“Dude. What the _fuck—!“_ he started, almost-snapping out of his stupor— and it must’ve been muscle memory, because he reached forward to fist the fabric of his shirt to tug him down but— 

he was crying.

“You’re Tobio-chan, right?” He asked— and the tears were streaming at that point, he was sniffling, cheeks red. And then— his other hand touched the back of head, patted his head insistently— like he was trying to feel to see if he was real. At the back of his mind, he realized the library was empty. He could barely feel the sting on his cheek.

“You’re _my_ Tobio-chan, right? You look like him— you look _just_ like him, he had these really pretty, blue eyes and he liked milk, and,” he choked on his words, “and he really—!” Kageyama caught his wrists, and raised them in front of his chest, the shock was still rendering him stiff, but he could still do this.

“I... Yeah, it’s me. It’s me. It’s Tobio-chan. Your Tobio-chan.” He whispered, feeling his hands shake in his grasp. He could feel tears begin to bead up in his eyes, too, god, how long has it been since he last cried? It’s felt like years.

He watched Oikawa heave, flexing his fingers in his grasp— before he shook himself out of Kageyama’s grip and grabbed him. It was a bit awkward, hugging over a large, wooden counter, but they made it work— holding each other tight enough to hurt, like they were the air the other needed in order to breathe (and they were, in a way).

**vi.**

It was... familiar. _This,_ was familiar.

In the kitchen— with the sun sat high, the curtains pulled back, the light shining through. Oikawa slumped over a table, Kageyama making them something to drink.

A few things were different, though. Now, instead of being awoken by those _annoying_ roosters, they now had Oikawa’s even _more_ annoying alarm to wake them up. (“You absolute fuckface. I’ve been trying to find an apartment with good, natural lighting for _ages.”_ “How does that make me a fuckface?”) And, instead of tea— Oikawa preferred coffee, now— completely black, and completely bitter.

“You look the same,” Oikawa mused— a light smile on his face, and face balanced in his palms, eyes half-lidded. Kageyama pretended to gag into his cup, glaring at him with faux-disgust.

“You’re still ugly as fuck,” Kageyama replied, and at that, Oikawa sputtered— beginning to spit out petty insults that the other man had _long_ become desensitized to. He leant back onto the marble counter, clad in a dark-colored sweater that was a size too-big for him. They stared at each other for a few long moments, the air slightly tense.

“What happened,” Kageyama asked— demanded, more like— it had been eating at him for _god_ knows how long. It was a hundred questions condensed into one. He watched as Oikawa sighed, eyebrows pinching together as he glanced down at his mug, turning it in his hands.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, pressing the side of his face against his shoulder, “I have no idea, honest.” He choked out. “I— I can’t, I remember— an explosion? And then... I don’t know. I can’t remember anything. After that, the earliest memory I have is from... I don’t know, the sixties, I guess?” He murmured, “I don’t even know if it was the sixties.” He said.

“But,” he took a sip, “I know for a fact that I hate swimming.” He added, almost like an afterthought, a weak attempt at lightening the mood.

Kageyama pursed his lips together, nodding. He looked down at his glass, and finished the rest of its contents in a single go— silence ensued. It was brittle, and he didn’t have the heart to try and break it.

He hadn’t realized it— that Oikawa had gotten up from his seat, standing in front of him— not until he was _literally_ in his face. Kageyama glanced up curiously.

“I forgot about you, for a while,” he started, pulling the glass out of Kageyama’s grasp— “I knew that there was someone important to me, someone I was forgetting about. I tried to chase those memories for so, _so_ long. I tried to find _you_ for so long, even though I didn’t even know who you were.”

“But then, I remembered a promise I made to myself. I promised that— I _vowed_ that ever since I fell in love with you, I was going to marry you, some day.” He rasped out, and Kageyama was glad he hadn’t been drinking anything at the moment.

“I remember buying this,” he started, procuring a ring from his enclosed fist— a glinting silver, covered in scuffs. _When did he—_ Kageyama thought, but he began to speak again, “I bought this piece of shit in the twenties, Tobio— the _twenties._ I don’t know how I still fucking have it.” He whispered out, shaky— almost laughing.

He watched— watched with attentive eyes, as Oikawa’s lips pursed, fingers flexed, watched him chew the inside of his cheek. He breathed out, suddenly.

“I— marry me, Tobio? Please.” He asked, twisting the ring around in his fingers, “I know you don’t like having things on your hands, I’ll buy you a chain for it, later. If you don’t like it— I could get you another one.” He said, and he was nervous, he was _shaking,_ “I would get down on one knee, but fuck, my knee is so busted, I don’t think I could if I tried—!” Kageyama cut him off, kissing him suddenly, plucking the ring from his fingers.

They parted, a few, long seconds later. Kageyama turned it in his hands— the cold, scuffed up, band of silver that’s been through almost as much as them. He smiled a rare smile, and glanced up at him, before fixing his face into a neutral, unimpressed look.

“Busted knee, huh? I guess you’re finally turning into an old man, _ojiisan.”_ He said— and watched as Oikawa blinked at him, once, twice, before dissolving into wet, (relieved) laughter— pulling him in for hug (and over his shoulder, Kageyama smiled at the sun).

**Author's Note:**

> 10/25/20: hiii !! i rewrote this fic bc it was literally disgusting <\3 i hope this version is more enjoyable to read !! i rlly liked writing it,,, uhh,,, anyway !! pls tell me if u liked this & why and if u didn’t, pls also tell me why !! i rlly appreciate all constructive criticism and comments, they literally make my day, anyway, ty so much if u made this far, stay safe and take care !! <333 
> 
> please try and read [this carrd](https://linktr.ee/4nnca) which has info on blm & the situations occurring in congo and nigeria right now !! it also has several other resources regarding other things where u can educate urself on !!
> 
> o and u can find me at twitter over at [gr4ndk1ds](https://twitter.com/gr4ndk1ds) talk to me !!


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